Twisted(41)

I close my eyes against the memory. “He’ll be happy. He’ll be glad the baby’s gone . . . and then I’ll hate him.”

And even after everything that’s happened—I’m just not ready to hate Drew Evans.

Delores sighs. And her hand moves away from the phone. “I think you’re wrong. I’ll be first in line to point out what an idiot Drew can be, but . . . I can’t imagine him ever being happy about something that’s hurt you. Not like this.”

I don’t answer her, because the door to my bedroom opens. And Billy walks in. He looks tired, his face is somber, and I know my mother’s told him.

“You okay?”

I shake my head.

“Yeah. I figured as much.” He sits down in the beanbag chair and rubs his eyes. “This is just . . . totally FUBAR. And when really f*cked-up things happen? All you can do is get f*cked up right along with it.”

That’s when I notice the bag he brought with him. It’s supermarket brown, and bulging.

He picks it up and dumps some of the contents out. There’s a few bags of weed, a carton of Marlboro reds, and two bottles of tequila. I stare at the honey-colored liquid. And I think of Mexican music, and warm skin, and midnight whispers with Drew.

I love you, Kate.

I look away. “I can’t drink tequila.”

Like Mary Poppins with her bottomless bag, Billy reaches back in and takes out a bottle of Grey Goose.

And I nod slowly. “Vodka works.”





Chapter 14


Have you ever licked the floor of the men’s room at Yankee Stadium? Neither have I. But now I know just what it tastes like.

Yep—we’re hung over. It’s hell. Forget the drones; if the army could unleash this feeling? There’d be world peace for all.

I’m in the office of my mother’s gynecologist. Billy and Delores came along for moral support. See us there? Lined up in the chairs, like three delinquents waiting outside the principal’s office. Delores is wearing sunglasses even though we’re inside, reading a pamphlet about the new female Viagra. Billy’s asleep, mouth open, head tilted up and resting against the wall behind us. My mother’s here too, flipping through a magazine without reading any of the words.

And I just sit, trying too hard not to look at those pictures of newborn babies covering the walls.

Billy lets out a snot-sucking snore, and Delores jabs him in the ribs with her elbow. He wakes up sputtering, “Monkey ball banana blitz!”

We all look at him questioningly.

And he realizes where he is. “Sorry. Nightmare.” Then he lays his head back against the wall again, eyes closed. “I feel like gassy stool.” Delores and I nod in unison. And Billy solemnly swears, “I’m never drinking again. I’m going legit.”

His cousin scoffs, “Heard that before.”

“I mean it this time. No more alcohol for me. From here on out, it’s weed only.”

Yeah. That makes sense.

Since we’re waiting anyway, let’s take a moment to reflect on one of the most sacred womanly rites of passage: the gynecological exam. It’s completely bizarre.

See, our whole young lives, we girls are told to stay pure. Keep our legs crossed, our knees locked. And then we turn eighteen. And we have to go to an office and meet a doctor who, based on statistics, will be a middle-aged man. And then we have to strip bare—completely naked. And let him feel us up. And finger us. A total frigging stranger.

Oh—and then there’s the best part: the conversation. Yep, he talks to you during the exam. How’s school? Sure is rainy out today, isn’t it? Is your mother doing well? All in the effort to distract you from that fact that he’s wrist deep in your vagina.

Can you say awkward?

And don’t any of you men out there try and cry me a river about the horrors of your prostate exam. Doesn’t compare. One little finger up the ass can actually be rather pleasant. At least you don’t have to put your legs up in a contraption that originated as a medieval torture device. Women definitely got the raw end of the deal on this one.

A nurse in blue scrubs calls my name. My mother and I stand up and walk into the first exam room on the left.

I take my clothes off and put on the pink plastic robe, opening in the front, of course.

The better to see you with, Little Red Riding Hood.

I sit on the table, the paper liner crunching beneath me. My mother stands to the side, rubbing my arm supportively. And in walks the doctor.

Take a look. White beard. Chubby cheeks. Round glasses. Give him a red hat, and he could totally ride that last float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

I have to go to third base with Santa Claus? Are you kidding me?

Christmas will never be the same.

“Hello, Katherine. I’m Dr. Witherspoon. Your mother’s regular physician, Joan Bordello, is on vacation—”

Of course she is.

“—and I’m filling in for her.” He looks down at the file in his hand. “Judging by the date of your last menstrual cycle, you’re almost six weeks into your first trimester?”

I nod.

“And you’ve had some bleeding and cramping?”

“That’s right.”

“Can you describe the blood for me, please? The color? Were there any clots?”